


Familiar

by Calais_Reno



Series: Many Happy Returns [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cats, Companions, Don't copy to another site, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, M/M, Magical Realism, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: The night after Sherlock plunges to his death, the cat shows up.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Happy Returns [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880692
Comments: 54
Kudos: 158





	Familiar

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Фамильяр](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653071) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



The night after Sherlock plunges to his death, the cat shows up.

John is sitting in his own chair, staring across at the empty chair, his shock beginning to recede into denial. It’s like a sequence in a movie, where the picture of a departing train gradually fades out, and instantly you’re somewhere else. He was standing on the pavement in front of Barts, talking to Sherlock, and now here he is, alone in an empty flat.

He’s not sleepy, but if he just goes to bed, he could wake up and come downstairs for his shower, and Sherlock would be either (a) sitting in his chair, using John’s laptop, (b) doing something disgusting with severed ears in the kitchen, or (c) sprawled on the sofa, asleep. Life would reboot, and he wouldn’t be dead.

On the other hand, waking up and finding that Sherlock isn’t alive, that he is, in fact, very dead— and that John’s brain has the pictures to prove it— these things would be final. Sherlock always filled up every space that he entered, even the space inside John’s head. There is no way to live in this flat, now so empty that it can never be filled again. If he sleeps and wakes up, and Sherlock is dead, there is no undoing that. He sits, exhausted and unmoving.

He isn’t sleepy. Staying awake seems the best option. At least it gives him a few more hours to think of what happened as a joke or a dream before it becomes all too real. It gives him time to imagine Sherlock bursting through the door, his coat flying, and announcing, _Well, that was tedious._

Imagining this is nice; it fits into a well-worn template. He’s spent many nights sitting in his chair, waiting, only to have Sherlock swoop in with a perfectly absurd explanation. It’s easy for him to assume that this is just another instance of Sherlock doing Sherlocky things. He’ll come through the door any moment now, and John will be relieved.

His bare feet rub the carpet. He doesn’t remember taking his shoes and socks off, but there they are, kicked off, under the table. Walking barefoot around the flat can be hazardous, what with all the broken test tubes and upended samples of soil and ash. For a person who keeps his socks indexed, Sherlock litters his immediate environment with his daily detritus— notes, letters, books, newspapers. His last cup of tea is still sitting half-empty next to his chair, a plate of toast crumbs balanced on the mantel.

Tomorrow Mrs Hudson will break John’s heart when she comes upstairs to clean up all the evidence that Sherlock lived here. She’ll put Sherlock’s mouse-coloured dressing gown in his closet, his slippers under the bed, and close the door to his room. Then she’ll start on the kitchen, bin the eyeballs and pour out the questionable liquids that have been saved in various containers, scour the table and the worktop until there are no more unidentifiable stains. After that she’ll pat John’s shoulder, sigh, and say nothing.

There is nothing to be said.

He has just started on his third round of imagining Sherlock sitting in his chair, looking bored, when a cat strolls across the carpet and jumps into the chair.

It’s a black cat with pale green eyes, rather skinny and roughed up. It begins licking its paw and swiping at its face, and John notices that it’s bleeding.

“What have you done to yourself?” he asks.

The cat looks at him and blinks. It’s a familiar look, the one that might mean, _Isn’t it obvious? What goes on in your funny little brain?_

It goes back to washing its face.

“Right,” he says. “Got into a bit of a scrap, did you? Let me get my kit and fix you up.”

He kneels beside Sherlock’s chair and examines the cat. Surprisingly, it lets him. He parts the fur and finds the wounds. Most only need some antiseptic, but one requires a couple of stitches. The cat lies perfectly still. When he’s done, he puts his bag away, washes his hands and returns to his chair.

As soon as he does, the cat jumps up into his lap, purring and rubbing its face against him.

“You’re welcome.” He scratches the silky ears and runs his hand down the bony back. It’s a male cat, all black except for one tiny white mark on his forehead. As John pets him, he becomes boneless.

The cat wakes him in the morning. He’s fallen asleep in his chair and his neck has a crick. His feline visitor is yowling at the door to get out, so he stumbles up and opens the door. The cat races down the stairs, paces at the door until John comes and opens it.

Only then does it occur to him to wonder how the cat got in the previous night— right into the flat, walking across the carpet as if he owned the place. Now he’s gone around the corner and John feels a little pang of sadness at seeing him leave. He stands shivering in his pyjamas in the cold November air. It’s almost as if—

“John.” Mrs Hudson, her hair still in curlers, her robe wrapped over her nightgown, is standing at the door looking at him. “Are you all right? I heard you come down the stairs—“ She takes in his attire and shoeless state. This seems to worry her. “Were you going somewhere?”

“No, I just… There was this cat…” He frowns. It would be fairly hard to conjure up a cat out of whatever was going through his funny little brain last night. He’s never had a cat, not in all the years he was growing up. A couple of dogs, but no cats. They aren’t the kind of pet you own— they own you. They don’t show devotion like a dog. If he were going to get a pet, it would be a dog. He’s not a cat person.

“A cat,” she repeats.

“Poor thing,” he says. “It was hurt. I fixed it up.”

She pats his arm. “That’s lovely. It’s rather chilly out here, don’t you think? Maybe we should close the door.”

Just then, the cat comes around the corner, stalking towards 221B Baker Street as if it lives there. Silently, it trots between John and Mrs Hudson and heads back up the stairs.

“That cat?” She smiles. “Looks like he’s adopted you.”

“Um, Mrs Hudson.” He looks up the stairs, sees green eyes staring down at him from the landing. “Do we have a pet clause in our lease?”

“It’s fine, John.” She smiles. “He’ll keep you company.” Her eyes tear up a little then. “It’s fine.”

The cat is waiting for him upstairs, begins purring and rubbing against his legs as soon as he reaches the flat. Hungry, no doubt. He puts down a dish of water and then considers what might be good for a cat to eat. The cat laps silently at the water.

“I think I’m gonna have to go to the shops.”

He looks up at John. The cat— _what’s his name?_ No collar. He cocks his head, waiting for something. Maybe he’s thinking, _this idiot doesn’t know what he’s doing._

“Sorry.” He looks through the cupboard. Biscuits, a tin of beans, some noodles. “I’ve never had a cat before. What should I call you?”

The cat gazes at him skeptically.

“How about just Cat,” he decides. “Let’s leave it open-ended.”

The cat sits and begins to wash his face. Maybe he’s offended.

John makes a list: pet dish, food, litter box, litter. Maybe a few toys. “Make yourself at home,” he tells the cat, putting on his jacket. “I’ll be back soon.”

No surprise, the cat is finicky. He’s brought home both dry food and various tinned feasts. The animal eats little, and when he does, it’s the dry food. He spends his time sleeping in Sherlock’s chair, grooming himself, and batting around the cat toys John bought him.

He begins sleeping on Sherlock’s bed. John spends several nights falling asleep in his chair or trying to sleep on the sofa. He rubs his neck. There’s a perfectly good bed upstairs, but he doesn’t go up there. It’s hard to explain, so he tries to ignore it. Maybe it’s because if he sleeps upstairs, it will feel too normal and he’ll forget, and he just can’t go through that again, waking up and thinking none of it happened. He can’t deny that it’s real, but it hurts too much to think about it.

Now that he’s set up the litter box in the loo, the cat doesn’t ask to go out. He spends his days sleeping, washing himself, and watching John. If John goes out to the shops or for a walk, he doesn’t try to follow. When he returns, the cat’s in Sherlock’s chair, sleeping. He stretches and yawns, then comes and rubs against John’s legs.

When a week has passed, John has gone upstairs only to change his clothes. The cat follows and watches as he collects what he needs, moving quickly and trying not to think much about what he’s doing. He can’t sleep up here. Maybe he’ll have to move out.

He’s changed into his pyjamas and is watching a show on the telly, a nature show about jellyfish. It’s almost hypnotic, the way they inflate and deflate themselves, propelling their transparent bodies through the water. He has to be careful what he watches these days. Too many things seem to trigger his memory of that day. A rooftop view, a phone call, an accident. These are basic elements of drama. Jellyfish are safe by comparison. Even better, cooking shows.

It’s after midnight and he’s been watching a show about bees. Apparently bees are dying out. It’s a mystery, but if they do, half of the things people buy at the supermarket— fruits and vegetables which need bees to pollinate them— would be gone. The earth could no longer support seven billion people. There would be world-wide famine. Some other species that depend on certain food sources would go extinct.

It’s hard to conceive of death on such a scale. Human brains might understand it in the abstract, but it isn’t personal enough to feel. He’s surprised, then, to find himself crying. He can’t explain it.

The cat jumps up onto the sofa and pushes his face against John’s. He’s purring. “I don’t know what to do,” John tells him. Green eyes stare into his.

Then the cat jumps down and heads for Sherlock’s bedroom. John follows.

He lies on the bed, curled around the cat, petting its fur and feeling the vibrations of its purring. He weeps quietly. The cat rubs against his face, uses his rough tongue to taste his tears.

He sleeps more deeply than he has since Sherlock died.

Because he ought to be making more of an effort to move from Depression to Acceptance, he makes an appointment to see his old therapist. She didn’t help much before, when he came back from Afghanistan with a shoulder wound and an inexplicable limp, but he hasn’t any energy to look for a new one. What can she say? _Write a blog entry?_ He hasn’t much faith that she will help this time, either, but he keeps the appointment.

She sits across from him, prepared to take notes. Maybe it’s the note taking that ties his tongue, making it impossible to say what he’s really feeling. He tells her what’s happened. _Sherlock is dead_. He says the words. His throat closes.

“There’s stuff you want to say,” she says, “but didn’t say it.”

He chokes out one word. “Yeah.”

“Say it now.”

Tears roll down his face. He doesn’t trust his voice, but finally he says, “Sorry, I can’t.”

Sarah comes by and looks at him. Apparently she sees something she doesn’t like, so offers him his old job, doing locum work at the surgery. _When you’re ready._ The cat sniffs her feet warily. She reaches down and pets him, smiles when he purrs.

John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed now. Really, it’s the cat’s bed. The cat has claimed it as his own and allows John to sleep there.

He won’t move out, he decides. They can stay here, in the flat, the two of them.

Molly comes to visit. “I didn’t think you were a cat person,” she tells John. The cat is on her lap, purring as she rubs his ears. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. He’s a stray.” He’s thought about naming him, but no name seems to fit. Molly has three cats. Their names are Lucy, Abby, and Tiger. “I haven’t given him a name. I just call him Cat.”

“Are you all right, John?” Molly cares about people. She cared about Sherlock, so she has to care about John.

“I’m going back to work.” He shrugs. “Might be good for me.”

She nods. “I think so.”

There’s a sameness to all his days. He makes breakfast, puts out food for the cat, goes to work. His patients have the most boring problems, but that’s fine. Every now and then, there’s an interesting case, and when he comes home, he tells the cat about it.

“You wouldn’t believe this patient that came in last night,” he says one evening. “Five years old, high fever, skin peeling right off his palms, bright red eyes.”

The cat raises his head, intrigued.

“Kawasaki disease. Never saw a case before.”

The cat hops up on the sofa and cocks his head.

“I don’t know what tipped me off. When he stuck out his tongue and I saw how swollen and red it was, I remembered reading about that and it all just clicked together.”

The cat purrs and rubs against his face.

John rubs his ears. “Satisfying when that happens.”

They watch people baking tortes and then a show about Renaissance art comes on. He doesn’t pay much attention, eventually closes his eyes. In his mind, he’s talking to Sherlock.

Sometimes John pours himself a few fingers of whisky and sips as he watches the bakers. Every time he does this, the cat goes into the bedroom and doesn’t come out. If he comes to bed smelling like alcohol, the cat sleeps on the floor. He stops drinking.

One night he wakes up, his skin prickling with goosebumps, not from cold. He lies still, listening in the darkness.

It’s a smell, something subtle but not unpleasant, and somehow familiar.

He reaches out for the cat, but his hand doesn’t find anything.

And yet, something, someone is here in the dark with him. The room is too dim to see, the light of the street lamps blocked by blackout shades.

He keeps his eyes open, straining to see, but doesn’t move. _That smell_. Sandalwood and vetiver, just a hint of citrus. Sherlock’s aftershave. _His_ smell.

It’s subtle. Sherlock never went for heavy colognes. You couldn’t really smell it at all unless you were right next to him. John smelled it. You don’t live with someone and not pick up on those things.

He feels a warmth. In the darkness, he can barely make out a shape next to him. _Sherlock._

His breath hitches; he doesn’t speak or move. He doesn’t turn on the light.If he is dreaming, he doesn’t want to think about what it means. It’s a gift, or maybe a sign. _Don’t be dead._

In the morning, the cat wakes him up, stepping on his chest and purring. There is no sign that anyone else has been in the room.

As he pours cat food into the dish, he asks, “Where were you last night?”

He doesn’t get an answer.

Sherlock is still there, in John’s head. He does what he can to carry on. Ten years from now, twenty years, he’ll still be pouring cat food in a dish, cleaning the litter box, watching cooking shows, eating takeaway Thai food. Grief is something like the scar on his shoulder, a continual reminder of a terrible day that has fundamentally changed him. A few years ago, he was in Afghanistan getting shot. When that happened, he was afraid of dying, but being dead isn’t the worst. Losing someone is the worst, and being left behind hurts more than bleeding out in a desert. He sits on the sofa, petting the cat and watching a show about Mount Everest.

People stop by and visit him— Lestrade, Molly, even Mike Stamford. They are watching him, not asking why, after more than a year, he is still just putting one foot in front of the other. He used to run down dark alleys, climb fire escapes, face armed suspects without flinching. They look at him now and see a reduced man, a man who sits home each night watching the telly with his cat, who has lost his heart and barely exists. He never told anyone what Sherlock meant to him. People might have suspected; he knows they did. Now it’s obvious. Sherlock made John brave. He made him live.

But he continues working because that makes the days go faster, and every evening the cat meets him at the door. He makes dinner, usually something simple, and they watch the telly. When he goes to sleep, the cat is beside him.

When he wakes at night, Sherlock is beside him. He feels his warmth, smells his aftershave. If he were to reach across the bed, he is certain he would feel him. But that would end this.

“I miss you,” he whispers into the dark.

At the surgery a new receptionist is answering the phone. John nods at her and the other nurses each morning when he arrives. Nobody flirts with John; they know that he’s walking around with a hole in his heart. The new receptionist must know this too, but it doesn’t stop her.

Mary Morstan addresses him cheerfully, but with just a bit of sympathy that tells him she knows. The first day, he doesn’t react. The next time, he smiles at her. She begins bringing his coffee to his office, which tells him that she’s keeping an eye on his schedule of patients, noticing when he’s likely to need another cup of coffee. If he’s on the phone, she puts it on his desk and winks at him.

 _Winks at him._ That’s when he realises what her game is.

While it’s flattering, he’s not interested. It’s not something he can explain. Every day he counts the minutes until he can leave and go home. He has a cat to talk to, one who knows when he needs a purring ball of fur on his lap.

“Sherlock would have figured it out on day one,” he tells the cat. “I didn’t expect it. I guess that’s why I’m no good at deductions.”

The cat pauses in his grooming. He’s finished his front paws and face, and is probably thinking about what area needs attention next. He turns his back on John, sticks his hind leg straight up and goes to work on his nether regions.

“So, what do I do about this woman?”

The cat turns and gives him a heavy-lidded stare.

“I know, I know. You’re thinking she’s a dog person. Wouldn’t be surprised.”

The grooming resumes. Now he’s biting at his toes.

“I’m getting the feeling that you don’t like her.”

The biting pauses. The cat’s ears twitch.

“I’m not interested, in case you hadn’t already deduced that. She’s pretty, and clever, and funny, and a couple years ago I might have asked her out. But I’m not interested.” He wonders why that is. Is he just going to be a cat person from now on, this weird guy who prefers to spend evenings watching his cat lick its butt?

The cat jumps off the chair, sits at his feet, watching him, tail switching back and forth. _You know my methods, Watson. Deduce._

He wakes up with a sore throat and calls Sarah to say he won’t be in. After he’s had a dose of paracetamol, he doesn’t feel so bad. He ends up spending the day on the sofa, watching crap telly. Maybe that’s all he needed, a day at home.

The cat is being very affectionate, insists on lying on his chest while he’s sleepily ignoring the talk show that’s on. He dozes off and on, and when he looks at the clock, it’s nearly six.

He swings his feet over the side of the sofa and the cat scrambles up to find a new perch.

“Hungry?”

The pink tongue comes out, one lick of its mouth. He follows John into the kitchen and hops up on a chair.

“How about one of the tins?” he asks. “Seems to me you liked the the tuna when you tried it.” He holds up the tin, showing it to the cat. The pink tongue drags over his fingers.

He opens the can, dumps it on top of the dry food that’s left. “Bon appétit.”

The cat sniffs his food and begins to eat, daintily. He usually won’t empty the bowl, but he is looking much better than the night he first showed up. His black fur is sleek and shiny, and his haunches have filled out.

He hears the door downstairs, and Mrs Hudson answering it. She talks for a minute with whoever it is— a woman, it sounds like— and then calls up the stairs. The visitor must have passed scrutiny, because he can hear feet on the stairs. He opens the door just as she knocks.

 _Mary Morstan_. For a moment, he’s too surprised to speak.

“Sarah said you were feeling poorly,” she says, smiling apologetically. She’s holding a paper bag. “I know you live alone, so I thought I’d—“

John feels the cat bristling as it winds itself between his legs, hears it making a low, growling sound, but he’s totally unprepared for what happens next.

The cat springs at her with a cat-sized roar. He climbs her legs, embeds his claws in the coat she’s wearing, and hisses in her face. She screams. John grabs the cat to pull it off her, but it won’t disengage its claws. It growls.

Still shrieking, Mary is struggling to push the cat off.

“Cat!” John holds on, trying to work the claws out of the coat. “Be nice!” With a final hiss, the cat lets go and climbs up on John’s shoulder. It continues to move from shoulder to shoulder, growling low.

Mary’s mouth is open. “Does it always do that?” She backs away from the door, clutching her bag.

“First time,” he says. “Usually he’s friendly. I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into him.”

“I’m not really a cat person,” she says, eyeing her attacker warily. Abruptly, she holds out the bag. “Hot and sour soup. Good for congestion.”

As he reaches for the bag, the cat growls in his ear.

She’s already on the stairs, heading down. “Well, hope you feel better. Bye!” The door bangs behind her.

Belatedly, he calls, “Thank you!”

The cat is finishing his dinner.

“So,” John says. “I was right. You don’t like her.”

What wakes him up is his phone. It doesn’t make a sound, but the screen lights up and that’s what rouses him. In the thick darkness, he feels the sleeping presence next to him and almost rolls over to look.

It’s in his mind, he knows. Not that a therapist could do anything about it. He could turn on the lights now and look, but he knows what he would find. There isn’t anyone there, not really. It’s just a manifestation of his wishes. He knows what it is that he wishes, but he can’t name it. Not yet, maybe never.

“I know you’re dead,” he whispers. “But I miss you. Why did you leave me?”

He hears a sigh, or imagines it. _I’m sorry…_

“I’m… okay. You don’t have to… well, I want you to know that you were the best. Best friend, best person.” Tears fill his eyes. “I love you. Always did. That’s what I want you to know.”

_John…_

“I love you, Sherlock, and I will for the rest of my life. But I’ll be okay now, so you don’t need to do… whatever you’re doing. It’s all right. You can rest now. I’ll be fine.”

_I love you, John._

The bed is warm and he can feel a shadowy shape turning over, throwing an arm over him. His tears fall on the pillowcase. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

He doesn’t remember drifting off to sleep, but it’s bright when he opens his eyes, and his phone is ringing. He looks at the time: 9:35.

“Sarah— I’m sorry. Overslept.” Blinking, he runs a hand through his hair.

“It’s fine, John. I just assumed you needed another day, so I haven’t scheduled you for any appointments. Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, a lot better. I promise I’ll be in tomorrow.”

“Well, don’t push yourself. Give me a call later, okay?”

He rings off and looks around the room. There’s a small indentation on the other side of the bed where the cat sleeps, but no cat.

Pulling on his robe, he goes to the loo and relieves himself, washes his hands and stares at himself for a minute.

He heard a voice last night, and in some people’s minds, that might make him crazy. But he doesn’t feel crazy. He feels lighter, as if he’s dropped some heavy burden and can now go forward with less to carry. Hallucination or metaphor. Maybe a dream. His grief is still there, but it’s softer now, less painful.

He’ll clean the litter box today, he decides. But first, breakfast.

In the kitchen he fills the cat’s dish with water, and then puts water in the kettle. He sends the rest of last night’s cat dinner into the bin, rinses the dish, and shakes fresh cat food into it.

Usually the sound of the bag brings the cat running, but today he doesn’t appear.

He looks into the sitting room, checks all his usual spots. No cat. The door was closed last night, but perhaps it hadn’t latched. Mrs Hudson might have seen the cat.

“No, dear, I haven’t seen him,” she says. “He’s not an outdoor cat, is he?”

“I’ve never let him out after that first day. He always seemed content in the flat. Can you think of any way he might have gotten out?”

“Well, there’s the lumber room, next to your bedroom. If he got into it, there’s a window onto the roof.” She calls after him as he begins to take the stairs two at a time. “Your key will open the door!”

He runs into the flat, straight up to his old room, and fits his key into the other door. Once it’s opened, he explores the lumber room, finds the window, which is closed. He checks the boxes that have been stored here, Mrs Hudson’s things and Sherlock’s. Then he looks in every corner of his old room, checks every window in the flat, looks under every piece of furniture. The cat is gone.

 _Cats do this_ , he tells himself. They’re here, they’re gone. They might purr and rub against your legs, but they’re fickle. He’s probably found some old lady who will feed him sardines every day.

Once again, grief washes over him, this time for a cat. He’s not even a cat person, but he’s grown used to having a warm pile of fur on his chest when he’s watching the telly, hearing him purr first thing in the morning, feeling him rub against his legs when he’s trying to get dressed. The cat is a familiar part of his life now, and he’s not sure he can stand it if he’s gone.

He imagines walking down Baker Street and finding him, hit by a car, dying in the gutter, and it’s too much. Sinking down into Sherlock’s chair, he cries. Nothing can fill the empty hole.

He’s curled up in the chair, still shuddering with sobs, when he hears the click of the front door downstairs. Rubbing his eyes, he sits up and waits, listening.

The steps are familiar. Light, quiet, avoiding the eleventh step that always creaks. Too heavy for a cat, too soft for Mrs Hudson. His pulse thunders in his ears.

Silently the door swings open, and he’s here, he’s home. Sherlock Holmes has come back.

He looks at John without speaking, as if he’s afraid to step over the threshold, as if he doesn’t have the words to explain how he’s here. A bit guilty, John thinks, his usual confidence overlaid with caution. Thinner than he was, and John can see a few strands of silver in the dark curls that hang over his forehead. He holds himself tentatively, and John sees pain there. And fear. One sudden move, and he might flee.

He speaks gently to the ghost in the doorway, infusing his voice with safety and calm and _home_. “What have you done to yourself? Got into a bit of a scrap, did you?” He stands and moves towards Sherlock— slowly, so he won’t spook him. Softly, he raises his hand towards him. “Will you let me…?”

Sherlock bites his lip. His eyes fill with tears. “John.”

His arms go around Sherlock, gently, feeling for where he is hurt. He leans his head against the narrow chest, listening to his heart. “You’re real, you’re alive. God, I missed you so much.”

He feels Sherlock’s chest heave with sobs, let loose after months of holding in fears and hopes. He lets John’s hands feel the wounds that are still fresh, the scars that have left their marks. He whispers, “I missed you too, John. So much.”

They sit on the sofa, Sherlock lying with his head in John’s lap, allowing himself to be petted. _I love you,_ John whispers. _Rest now._

Sherlock smiles. _I love you, too._ And then, he sleeps.

Witches are said to have familiars, supernatural entities that assist them and provide protection for themselves— or for the people they love. Sherlock Holmes is no witch, but there _is_ something magical about him.

John doesn’t believe in such things, of course. He’s a modern man, a believer in science. Maybe some day he’ll tell Sherlock why there’s a bowl of cat kibble in the kitchen and a litter box in the loo. He already knows Sherlock won’t ask.

And he’s quite sure he won’t be seeing that cat again.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fifth in my series of short stories with a theme: Sherlock comes home to John.  
> Some angst, but always a happy johnlock ending. 
> 
> The next one will be posted in one week, September 19.  
> It's called Last Chance, and it will explain how Sherlock got to Karachi and back without John noticing, among other things.


End file.
